In the Firing Line
by The Archimedes Complex
Summary: Times change, but people can't always change with them. Sniper finds himself facing a predicament that threatens life as he knows it, but whether it's for better or worse will require him to breach every boundary he's ever built. TF2 Sniper, Medic, Spy and maybe more...


"S'been a tough heard this year. Your father had his work cut out down by the ridge, had a couple 'a stampedes an' a few strays. 'sa good thing we got the help when we did, not sure he'd be in one piece otherwise." The sigh through the crackle of the telephone was stretched with age. "He had it hard with the new hands, bunch'a rookies hardly knew what they were doin' for the most part... We could'a really used you back 'ere this toime round."

"Don't mum."

"I'm just say'in it'd be noice to have you back for the summer drove. It's just once a year, we're not getting' any younger and-"

"I've sent you more than enough to pay off the mortgage on the farm. Hell, you could probably hire four or five experienced drovers with the last payment, if you weren't both so bloody stubborn you could'a-"

"Language Mick." The snapping curtness of his mothers voice chased off whatever frailty had imagined in it before. He gripped the bottom of the phone and gritted his teeth.

"Sorry. But you gotta admit it's hoigh toime you two started thinkin' about settin the farm aside and focussin' on-"

"On what Mick? Our abundance of grandkids?"

She cut so suddenly to the point that he was left speechless. Another sigh filtered through the miles of wires between them with a new weariness that twisted a knot of familiar guilt in his stomach. "Son, you know how much family means to us. It's why your father took to your leavin' so bad, he wants you to get ahead in the world, heaven knows we both do, but what woman in their roight mind is gonna marry a gunman?"

"Assassin, mum. I'm an assassin."

"So shootin' people instead o' coyotes then?" As much as he loved his mother he was a mere few words away from slamming the phone back onto its receiver. He knew by now that she was tried of trying to talk him back to them, it had been a conversation they'd had too many times before with an ending they knew all too well. "The farm has been in our family for generations. It's our responsibility as Mundy's to keep it goin'. You know you're father and I won't let it go easy until we've seen you settle down... we want you to be happy Mick, before we go..."

"My contract ends in a couple of months, alroight? If I'm not re-commissioned by then I'll come back, foind a woife and stay with the farm. I'll even let ya pick out the girl for me if that's what it takes, deal?"

It was an empty promise at best and they both knew it, he'd been signed back up to the Reliable Excavation Demolition team for seven years without fail and never once come home. She sighed again with an obvious disappointment.

"Just... just think about it, would'ya? Think about us." Her voice was taken over by the racket of pounding boots and the gruff yell of a man. He couldn't deal with his father, not now.

"Take care mum."

"Mick-"

He slipped the phone back onto the receiver with a deft click and after a few moments of contemplation he kicked viciously at the stump of the payphone. It was a Mundy tradition that felt older than time itself, the inevitable talk to try and persuade him back to the mundane life of cattle herding and crop sowing that always ended with a guilt trip and an angry parting. He wandered back to the camper van he had left perched on the side of the dusty desert road, the sinking feeling still churning in his gut. Ripping open the drivers side door he hauled himself up into the van before slamming it shut with a little more force than was necessary, swearing loudly as the hot leather of the seat burned the backs of his legs. He'd forgotten to leave the AC on.

He could generally deal with the desert heat even on the worst of the summer days but with the guilt and anger boiling within him the stifling air of the van was almost unbearable. He tugged impatiently at the gear stick and blindly swerved out into the road, right then he didn't care if he killed the prime minister of Australia in his rage, being angry was better than admitting the truth; that he couldn't go back to Mundy farm, he couldn't settle down, he couldn't raise a family and he couldn't make his parents proud.

No, instead it was better to focus on revving the van back down the lonely road to Teufort and imagining the look on the next face that was unfortunate enough to come up in his cross hairs.

* * *

By the time he'd pulled up into the compound his apparent anger had melted away with the sweet, mellow jazz he'd found as he'd fumbled with the usually uncooperative knobs on the van's radio. He'd somehow found himself relaxing to the swing of the bass and shrill chirps of the trumpet forgetting the humidity, only to become all to aware of the heat as he brought the van to a halt and found his shirt sticking to him with sweat. Reaching to ceremoniously pat the rifle hanging above him on the headboard he climbed out of the van and searched his pockets for a cigarette, tugging off his shirt in the process and throwing it carelessly over the bonnet. The sun was at its peak; with any luck it'd be dry within the hour. From the belt on his hat he pulled off a pack of matches and was about to pluck one from the pack when a dancing flame suddenly appeared at the tip of his cigarette, the lighter it sprouted from was held by a red gloved hand.

"Bushman." The condescending greeting from the Spy was about as civil as he ever was but Sniper pushed the end of the cigarette forward all the same.

"Spook." He replied in kind.

"And where pray tell have you been hiding all morning?" The French tang of his words purred in his ear.

"Wouldn't you loike to know." He inhaled deeply and sank into the nicotine buzz of the toke as he cast a quick eye about the Spy. Somehow even in the desert heat the Frenchman still found it necessary to cover every inch of himself in the thick Italian suit he was so fond of, he could even see glistening damp patches on the brow and neck of the balaclava he was never without; the man was obviously boiling but would rather brave heatstroke than reveal any hint of his identity, even to his team. He stretched out languidly over the bonnet and basked his limbs in the sun, tipping his hat down over his brow to avoid the worst of the glare.

"As talkative as ever I see." He could feel the Spy's judging eyes tracing over his half naked body, not that he particularly cared.

"S'our day off mate. Don't have to do anything we don't wanna."

"So a conversation is out of the question?"

"Depends on the subject."

"In that case I wont try you for anything too... intelligent."

He ignored the insult and sucked again on his cigarette, leaning back a little further on the hot metal beneath him.

"You'd be better off wastin' yer time indoors, tryin' to rile me up out here wont getcha anythin' but a black eye an' a wet suit." From under the rim of the hat he could just make out the dark patches of sweat starting to spread down the Spy's back.

"Is that a threat?"

Without a second thought he let his fingers sidle over the kukri handle and drew the blade out an inch, it was a warning clearer than a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

"Wanna find out?" he muttered.

"Ah, our Sniper; ever the enigma wrapped in a mystery." The Spy teased, though he moved cautiously away even as he spoke. "I wonder if we will ever get past that hard outer shell of yours, I for one would love to see what troves of information lay deep within you're the obviously vast facets of your mind."

The sarcastic whine of his voice was annoying to say the least. In a last ditch attempt to get the Frenchman to move away he drew out the kukri and admired the blade almost absently.

"Funny, I was just thinking that I'd like to see the inside of your 'ead too..." Spy took the hint and began to skulk away, muttering in French with disdain. He listened with a keen ear and internally translated his every word, he'd committed to learning French soon after his arrival at RED if only for this reason alone. It was a cheap remark about his culture that suited him down to the ground. Sniper could only grin at the irony.

Satisfied that he'd sufficiently alienated himself from the team Sniper slipped the kukri back into its sheath and hitched himself up fully onto the bonnet before reaching for the battered spine of a book he had tucked away in the clinch of his belt. Folding back the pages he sucked again at the cigarette and traced his eyes down the page to find where he and Steinbeck had left off.

"Fuckin' hell George." He murmured, loosing himself to the literature and letting the rest of the world slip blissfully by.

* * *

He found the easiness with which he could close down from the world beyond liberating, it was something that had taken him years of rigorous training in the outback but finally he had mastered the control of his attention. In his job it allowed him to focus down the scope for hours undeterred by the sudden explosions of gore that plagued the scene, but for now it let him become entirely absorbed by the novel and he only noticed the setting sun when he found himself squinting at the words in the dark. As soon as his eyes left the page the sensations of the world he'd abandoned came flooding back; his stomach growled with ruthless pang of hunger, his bladder was close to bursting and the warm tingle of his skin informed him he'd been out in the sun too long. Flicking his wrist he looked at the face of his watch and groaned.

There never seemed to be enough hours in a Sunday. He pushed himself off the front of the van reluctantly and stretched out his unused limbs with cat like yawn when he remembered he still had to pay the Medic a visit. As he tucked the book back into his belt he reached vacantly for his shirt only to have his fingers brush against the metal bonnet. The shirt was gone.

"Bloody Spy." He muttered. The fights with the man he could deal with, even the insults to an extent, but the mind games grated on a different level of his patience.

He quickly combed through the back of the van and found an empty jar, a vague plan flashing through his mind as he relieved himself into the container with a grim smile tugging at his lips. Sure of his quick-fire scheme he marched over to the base, detouring his route through the corridors to the infirmary past Spy's personal quarters. He approached the door and rapped his knuckles gently on the frame.

"Um... Spy?" he crooned. "I'll be needing my shirt back now, if you don't mind."

"Feeling a little more polite are we now Bushman?" Though the door muffled his voice it couldn't hide the smug tone of victory.

"I came to apologise actually."

Though he hadn't given much away to the team in his years of service there was one universal fact that everyone knew about him.

Sniper didn't apologise; the words 'sorry' left his lips only ever in a sarcastic manner, which of course made the perfect bait.

It was an idea of triumph too tempting for the Spy to refuse and before long the soft sound of his footsteps approached the other side of the door. Spy was a cautious man, this was evident by the many minutes of unlatching and unlocking several mechanisms bolting the door shut before it eventually swung open to reveal the man poised casually with a ridiculous smile on his face, an overzealous statement of his assumed success in winning Sniper over once and for all.

"Well when you put it that way..." he purred.

Sniper bit his lip, his hands twitching behind his back like a nervous schoolboy trying to appear earnest in everyway possible. The door opened wider.

He was still wearing his suit.

Perfect.

As Spy stepped back to offer him into the room Sniper moved for the door handle, judging the distance between the two of them carefully as he grinned at the Spy.

"Sorry mate!" he called, tossing the jar he'd held behind his back suddenly into the room and slamming the door shut. As the locks on the door each reset and bolted it shut a disgusted cry rang through from the other side.

"MON DIEU!"

To add the proverbial cherry to the cake sniper wrenched at the door handle with such a force the shaft came off in his hand, a sullen metal clunk fell through onto the other side. It was the sound of hell.

"Maybe you'll think twice about stealin' my shit next toime, ya snake!"

Sniper couldn't hear the barrage of insults that came reeling forth from the piss soaked man banging on the door through the laughter that carried him back through the corridor.

He was still chuckling as he pushed the metal theatre doors aside, but it was there that his stomach sank. The childish prank he had pulled suddenly lost its comical allure as he drank in the smell of disinfectant and prestigious look of the gleaming operating theatre before him.

"Somezhing is funny Herr Sniper?"

The heavy German accent cut through his laughter like a knife. The voice caught him from the corner of the room in which several large books were piled high around a desk that was covered in reports and small viles held in clamps and racks, the broad outline of the doctor that was half illuminated by a small desk lamp somehow made the chaos of the infirmary feel like a throne room.

Medic was scribbling quickly against a clipboard in his grasp. He hadn't even looked up.

"Just takin' care of a little business, doc. Nothin' to worry about."

Suddenly every step further into the infirmary became a struggle but he came to stand by the desk nonetheless.

The doctor was immaculately dressed as always, everything about him was meticulously detailed from the even fold of the knots in his tie to the way the smallest segment of his hair curled. He held the air of intelligence about him more than most, and as his piercing blue eyes came to rest on him over the rim of his glasses Sniper became painfully of its hold over him more than anyone.

"Vhere is your shirt?" His eyes scoured his abdomen and then shot a look to his hand. "Und vhy are you holding ein Türknopf?"

His fingers flexed and he realised he was still holding the door handle in his hand. He'd turned up half naked, laughing at himself with a mental handle in tow. He didn't even have to convince himself, he knew he looked crazy.

"Ah, that... Spy's doin'. Long story." He managed, placing the handle on the table in front of them like a puppy might bring its master a stick. The doctor's straight face gave nothing away, if he thought he was mad he concealed it well.

"I see." He murmured, scribbling something hastily before placing the clipboard aside and folding his hands over his lap. "How can I help you?'

"I... err... I'm applying for re-commission. Gotta get yer approval of my medical stats."

"Very vell." He stood up and traced his fingers along a series a large red binders on a shelf behind him, the labels traced with long, stiff looking words from the Doctors native language.

Unlike his French Snipers German was shaky at best; it wasn't that the language was hard, if anything the grammar was logical and the spellings were similar to English. It was the words themselves he struggled with, they were sharp and neat, a lot like the Doctor in that respect. And anything that could be compared to the intrepid man of medicine made him rethink his efforts and swallow back a barrage of unwelcome thoughts.

Medic tugged at a file and thumbed it open, flicking through the pages until he finally picked up a pencil and began scribbling once more. His hand suddenly stuttered and he looked over to him, the glasses slipping down his nose slightly.

"Zhis is your seventh application for re-commizzion?"

He nodded, feeling himself straighten up under that hard won stare.

"Origin, date of birzh, height ... you have not been married or farzhered any offspring in your time here?"

"'Fraid not." He murmured, the bite of his mother's words from that afternoon still fresh in his mind.

"Gut, gut..." he scanned over the paper again and walked round from behind the stacks of books and journals that littered the office. "Your orientation remains zhe same?"

"Orientation?"

Medic gritted his teeth.

"Your...Sexual Preferences."

Now there was a question the Doctor had never asked him before.

"C-Course!" He stammered defiantly, "Why the bloody hell ya even askin' that?"

"New Mexico passed zhe bill on legalising homosexuality two months ago. It is now considered standard prozedure for all medical practitioners to give zheir patients zhe choice of identifying as homosexual or... normal."

The pencil that stuttered above the paper suddenly snapped in the grasp of his white knuckled hand. Medic jumped at the sound of the cracking wood, seemingly shocked at his own actions. "Ach, forgive me... it is not a subject I am all zhat comfortable vhizh explaining yet. I take it from your reaction I am safe to assume you are not of zhat specific inclination?"

But there was no response.

His patient was silent, shaking slightly with laboured breaths as the palms of his limply hanging arms began to curl tightly into fists.

"Herr Sniper?" Medic raised an eyebrow and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are you feeling alright? You're pupils have dialted and your pulse is-"

"Don't touch me." He snapped, flinging the doctors hand away for him with vicious swipe. The alarm froze over Medics features as Sniper suddenly wrought the kukri from its sheath and pointed it warningly at him. "Don't ever touch me."

Slowly Medic swallowed and placed the file down before bringing his arms up as if in surrender to the Australians will.

"I did not mean any offense by zhe gesture Kammerad, I vas merely trying to perform the necessary duties for your re-commission."

"I ain't reapplyin'." He growled "Not anymore." Before the doctor could say another word Sniper had turned on his heel and marched away, smashing the doors of the infirmary aside before disappearing into the night.

The news hit Sniper like a train.

How long had he been running and hiding from the truth that had haunted every detail of his life? He had tried so hard to bury the shame and cover his tracks, crawling away to one of the most desolate parts of the world to keep himself from coming to terms with the unnatural desires that plagued him.

His eyes refused to focus on the winding corridors that he stormed through. Everything began to feel fuzzy around the edges as if he was caving in all the defences, the excuses, and the masks he had created to protect himself were suddenly meaningless.

The world was just slipping away.

He arrived back at the van with a thick film of sweat coating his body and his lungs burning, but he didn't dare to breath until he was safely in the confines of the back of the van. The second he gulped in the sticky, humid air he bellowed like a wounded animal. It was a single, primal roar that brought him to his knees until there was no feeling left in his chest and his body was consumed with silent but racketing sobs.

He had worked so hard to create this identity, becoming an island of man who kept all others at arms length to protect himself from the condemnation he knew would otherwise fall from society like the blade of a guillotine.

Years he had spent building the shell of a man around him to avoid such a fate, it was his existence, it was all he knew...had it really all been for nothing? Was society suddenly so ready to lift the red tape and pretend it was all going to be okay?

With a frustrated cough he dashed the tears from his eyes and wandered over to the foldaway bed, sinking into the hard mattress without even bothering to take off his boots.

He'd contact headquarters tomorrow, he reasoned slowly, search for a position with another team in a state that still upheld the laws that he had based his life upon.

"Professionals have standards, Mick." The cold words hung above him in the humid air, mocking his futile attempt to imitate his father. He focussed on them all the same, drawing his attention to rest on their invisible touch as he thought solely of their meaning. Devoid of distraction he allowed himself to be enamoured by the possibilities of what his father had meant before drifting off into a dark and dreamless sleep.


End file.
